


Those Left Behind

by Yevynaea



Series: Lost in the Woods [7]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Beast Wirt, Brotherly Love, Death from Old Age, Edelwood Trees, Family Estrangement, Future Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Poetry, Sad Ending, woodsman greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In a single moment of silent snowfall, between the setting of the moon and the return of the sun, the trees are still; waiting in the purple light of daybreak for a wandering spirit who wanders no more. They cannot comfort those left behind, but they will part to make clear a path previously unseen, leading the way to the stars stretched out above."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> So I just deleted and reposted this because it wasn't displaying properly at all, hopefully it'll actually work this time and if not, you can read the whole thing on my tumblr: http://mickeyrowan.tumblr.com/post/127213655812/those-left-behind  
> EDIT: IT WORKS!! :D I just copy pasted each section of the fic individually and for some reason now it's working. If you haven't read the long version that was previously only on tumblr, here it is. ^u^

" _Come wayward souls, who wander through the darkness. There is a light for the lost and the meek. Sorrow and fear, are easily forgotten, when you submit to the soil of the earth._ " He sings as he walks, the words springing readily to his lips, and for a minute he believes the song in its message.

"Wirt." _Stop that_ , is the unspoken order that comes after the name, and the Beast's mouth snaps shut. Then he scowls, despite the fact no one can see it.

 _Don't call me that_ , he wants to respond. He doesn't, if only because he knows it would just make the Woodsman more upset.

"Sorry." He bites out instead. The forest, from behind him, sighs in annoyance, and the Woodsman sighs a tired sigh. The Beast sighs for no other reason than to dismiss the words that are still trapped behind his teeth, waiting to be sung.

"Thank you." Greg replies. He adjusts the threadbare scarf around his neck, and tugs the brim of his hat lower over his face. A bird’s chirp makes him look up, but it’s a starling, not a bluebird, flying past. Greg rarely sees bluebirds, anymore.

“You’ll be following her soon.” The Beast says, and out of context his tone could have made it a threat. They both look to the patch of overturned dirt Greg has just finished patting down.

“I can’t do that.” The Woodsman gestures to the lantern where it sits at his side. “Who’d keep you from getting ahold of this old thing?”

“I could always hold onto it for a while.” The Beast offers, reaching for it, but he’s forced to flinch back when his brother slices the shovel down through the air, nearly taking off Wirt’s fingers. “Well that was just rude.”

Greg blinks in surprise at the childish familiarity in the Beast’s tone, and he isn’t sure whether the laugh that escapes him is earnest, or just bitter.

"Why did Enoch even let you over here?” He asks. Wirt looks around, at the fields he hasn’t been in since they were children.

“I wanted to say goodbye.” He admits quietly.

“She’ll be back eventually.” Greg reminds him.

“I won’t be. Not here.” Wirt counters. He waves a hand, and roots spring from the ground around Beatrice’s temporary grave. He can’t manage a tree, not from this far outside the woods, but it doesn’t take too much effort to create a lattice over the soil, marking it. The Woodsman hums disapprovingly at the appearance of the Edelwood branches, and Wirt bristles. “It’ll keep her safe. While she’s asleep.”

 _Safe from what? You’re the only danger here_. Greg wants to respond. He doesn’t, if only because he knows it would just make the Beast more upset.

“Fine.” He says instead.

~*~*~*~

The Beast has seen the next generation of bluebirds grow, and the day after Beatrice is buried, many of them fly back to the house where their parents lived so long. (A few of the parents follow them, the ones that are still young enough to fly.) They turn it back into a home, warm and lively, and the eldest of the fledglings, a young man named Noah, takes up the axe on the days when Greg is too tired.

Wirt stays close to the house, waiting with dread for the day he knows is coming.

~*~*~*~

Gregory brings a chair outside, in the middle of the night, moving slowly, hissing in pain whenever his joints pop in protest. He’s old, older than Beatrice is, buried in the fields of Pottsfield, waiting to rejoin her parents and siblings. His hair is grey, nearly white, and he hasn’t been out of the house in longer than he’d like. Still, he glares in warning whenever the Beast steps forward.

Walking silently next to his brother, Wirt feels, for the first time in nearly a century, very awkward. Greg refuses his help, carrying his chair out further and further through the yard, to the trees, and so Wirt simply walks alongside him.

“Where are we going, Woodsman?” The Beast asks finally, when they’re well past the treeline, out of sight of the house.

“ _Oh, we’re going to the pasture to meet_ \--” Greg starts to sing, but has to stop and cough when his lungs refuse to work with him.

“Greg.” Wirt chides, and something in him seizes up at the easy familiarity of the brotherly tone he’s just taken. The Woodsman grins, recognizing the voice under the shadows more than he has in ages. Wirt turns away, gears clearly turning in his head, and Greg’s smile only grows wider, even though he knows his brother will be back to being the Beast soon enough.

“Here’s far enough, I think.” He says, and Wirt turns back to him, confusion clear. Greg sets his chair down, taking a seat. His knees hate him for it. He ignores them.

“Greg,” Wirt stares down at him, “what are you doing?”

“I would’ve thought that’d be obvious, brother o’ mine.” Greg replies. Wirt stares for a moment, then,

“We’re going back to the house, come on.”

“No.” The Woodsman shakes his head. He’s got a purple scarf around his neck, and a grey hat atop his head, and he knows that if the forest doesn’t get him the cold will. “I’m well past ninety years old, and Noah and the others will take care of the lantern. Plus, I’ve already died once; it’s not as if this will be any worse.” He smiles again, and his brother sighs.

“You’re being ridiculous. Go back to the house.” The Beast orders.

“No can do, Wirt.” Greg shrugs. In all honesty, he doesn’t think his old legs would carry him all the way back even if he wanted to go. “I’m going to sit here, and enjoy the sunrise, and either turn me into an Edelwood or don’t, but I won’t be moving again. Say goodbye to Jason for me. And tell Beatrice I’m sorry I didn’t wait for her.”

“Stop it.” Wirt shakes out of focus, his voice angry and booming and scared. He curls in on himself. “You’re not dying. And-- and that’s a rock fact.”

“But not one of the true ones.” Greg replies. Wirt stands alongside him through the night, and starts making small noises that might be sobs. Grabbing his brother’s hand in his own, Greg shakes his head. “Don’t cry, Wirt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The Beast says curtly, but he doesn’t move to rip his hand away. “I’m not crying. I don’t even think I can.”

“Is that another rock fact?” Greg teases. Wirt laughs, a tiny, gentle sound. It’s familiar, in a far-off kind of way, and when he looks up, for just a second, Greg can see a young face and a blue cloak under the shadows.

“ _In a single moment of silent snowfall, between the setting of the moon and the return of the sun, the trees are still; waiting in the purple light of daybreak for a wandering spirit who wanders no more. They cannot comfort those left behind, but they will part to make clear a path previously unseen, leading the way to the stars stretched out above_.” The Beast says, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Is that your first real poem since you were fifteen?” The Woodsman asks.

“I’m still fifteen.” Wirt reminds him, and Greg laughs, throwing his head back to look at the stars.

~*~*~*~

When the sun rises, there is a new Edelwood in the forest, taller than any other has ever been, its branches intertwining with those of the trees around it. When a house full of bluebirds wakes, there is snow covering the ground outside.

In the woods, a boy, a monster, kneels in the snow, forehead pressed against the trunk of the newest Edelwood. Oil drops into the snow, shiny and black, from the shadows that hide his face, and the Beast bites back a bitter laugh.

Turns out he can cry, after all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Credit for a few awesome lines goes to tumblr user apollosprophet.) c:


End file.
